


Watch Me

by neuroglam



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Celestino really tries to be a decent human being here, Ciao Ciao ends up giving him a run for his money in the crush department, Ciao Ciao is long-suffering, Exhibitionism, M/M, Masturbation, Phichit Chulanont is a Little Shit, also crushing on his coach with a vengeance, also kinky, and also completely smitten, ciaochu, he's got no chance tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-09-18 23:26:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9407525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neuroglam/pseuds/neuroglam
Summary: In which Phichit has a crush and is very, very determined, and Celestino needs to be the voice of common sense. Somehow.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Kink meme prompt: Phichit likes to get frisky in semi-public places because he loves the risk of exposure. Celestino is way too old for this, a bit at a loss for how this started in the first place, but ultimately too weak to anything Phichit wants because he cares about him a lot and the enthusiasm is infectious.

Celestino is too old for this shit. Working with teenagers—sorry: young adults— implies risking some exposure to melodrama, but there's melodrama and there's—well. Whatever this is.

The first time it happens, Celestino is minding his business, heading back to the locker room after hitting the gym at the training complex. Usually, nobody's here at this time; it's an hour after practice's finally been dismissed, and the kids should be in their dorm waiting for the dining hall to open for dinner.

When he hears, "Nnnn, oh please, please more" from the other side of the door, he is exasperated more than anything else. He can tell exactly what is going on and he looks forward to breaking up a passionate teenage tryst about as much as he looks forward to the weekly calls from his mom, who is 73 and believes that sons have Responsibilities.

He considers leaving it alone—it's one of his skater boys, and as far as he can tell, they're all bent like a sickle. But then, one of the junior girls might be with him. She might get pregnant.

Celestino steels himself.

He doesn't know what he expected, but it’s not this: Phichit on a white towel, sitting on one of the benches and leaning against the wall, a hand on his dick and a finger knuckle-deep in his ass.

Like most men who've spent the last thirty years trying to dodge conversations about finding a nice girl and settling down, Celestino can't help that it gets to him a little. Phichit's skin is dark and creamy, his asshole a hairless pucker of dusky grey-pink. His almond-shaped eyes are wide in shock at being caught. The fucking strand of hair falling over his face isn't helping, either.

"Apologies," he says like the adult he is. "Be careful around here after practice, anyone can walk in. Now off to the dorm with you and I'll see you tomorrow."

He stops by the bar on his way back from work and buys himself a double shot of whisky as a reward for being able to say all of this while keeping his eyes above the neckline.

 

 

 

The second time it happens, it's again on one of his gym nights. Phichit is in the shower, with the curtain pulled back, jerking himself off while bothering one nipple with a finger.  _Thank god he's quiet this time_ , Celestino thinks, and he really shouldn't have counted his blessings so fast: as soon as Phichit hears him come in, his chest curves up and he moans, hand flying over his cock.

"Do you actually want to get caught!" Celestino scolds, annoyed. "Out!" He says and points to the door.

Phichit stops and looks down, deflated.

His cock is still full, pointing up between his legs.

Celestino really doesn't get paid enough for this.

 

 

 

The third time, it's a fucking dildo, stuck to the locker room floor, in direct view of the door.

Phichit's skater thighs are working as he bounces up and down, and there's so much lube his ass shines.

Celestino stops in his tracks.

Phichit reaches back and digs his fingers into his butt-cheeks, spreading them apart so Celestino can see better. And this—this can't be a fucking accident.

Celestino sighs and walks out. He'll at least let the kid finish.

 

 

 

He waits, leaning against the corridor wall with his hands crossed and his eyes closed.

It’s about fifteen minutes until Phichit comes out. He's showered and, thankfully, dressed. There's a sports bag across one of his shoulders, and in it, Celestino now knows, there's a dildo.

"We need to talk," he says evenly.

And now— _now_ —Phichit has the gall to look embarrassed.

 

 

 

They walk down the corridor together. Phichit is looking down, and Celestino tries to settle on what to tell him. In the end, he goes for the standard lecture: _I know that you’re of age and can make your own decisions, but this isn’t appropriate for a working relationship_.

He doesn’t say, _I’m too old for you_ or _you should find someone your age_ , or any of those other excuses old men make more to persuade themselves rather than their charges.

 

 

 

Three days later, Phichit’s again jerking off in the shower. This time, when Celestino enters, Phichit pins him with a look—one of those _I know you like it_ and _I know you like me_ and _I fucking dare you_ looks—and yeah, the kid’s got him there.

Celestino sighs.

 

 

 

That night on his couch, much like the old men he’s trying to be better than, Celestino imagines what it would be like.

The kid’s given him enough to rub his dick raw if he decides to go there, but that isn’t what he thinks about. Instead, it’s Phichit, asleep of his stomach, the naked skin of his back against Celestino’s worn cotton sheets. Or some bubbly Thai pop hit way too early in the morning, Pitchit’s eyes crinkling at him over a cup of coffee. Or Phichit, exhausted after practice and slack on the couch with his feet in Celestino’s lap. Soft jazz on the stereo, the tumbler of Jack.

Celestino wonders if kids even listen to stereos these days.

He gets up. He hasn’t finished his drink, but he’s getting maudlin. He’s for bed.

 

 

 

The next morning, Phichit carries on with the stinky looks at practice. Celestino pulls him over: _this right here is why it needs to stop. Personal feelings, positive or otherwise, cannot interfere with your skating and my coaching_.

“Are you telling me to get a different coach,” Phichit says.

Celestino realizes how much he’s really, really not telling him that.

 

 

 

It’s Friday night and Celestino is at home, on his couch, getting really good and drunk. He feels like he’s needed it for the last month.

He’s about a third of a bottle in when there’s a knock at the door. He goes to answer, confused, and he really shouldn’t have been. Phichit stands on his front steps, in a white outfit that’s at least as trendy as it's tight, and stares him down.

“Come in,” Celestino says.

For a moment, maybe irrationally, he is anxious about his house. It’s a bachelor’s house, and he hasn’t tidied. If he’d known, he’d have at least made an effort.

“Drink?” he asks.

Phichit ignores him. “Sit down,” he says and nods in the direction of the couch.

Celestino sits.

“Watch me,” Phichit says, and unzips his jeans.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, apparently, this thing has chapters now. I have made minor tweaks to Chapter 1 so the addition flows well together. Feed the porn muse comments for Chapter 3 :P

Phichit leans against the living room wall, right across from Celestino, and licks his lips. One hand pulls up his t-shirt while the other smooths down, ever-so-slowly.

Celestino’s mom is Catholic. This is how he knows that they canonize people for three miracles, and between the locker room shower, the dildo on the floor, and Phichit’s hand rubbing on a firming bulge over his boxers, he’s hit three miracles already. At the very least, he needs a medal. He knows what it takes to get one; this definitely counts.

He takes a deep breath. “Phichit. Stop.”

For a brief second, there’s murder in Phichit’s eyes, but it can’t be helped. One of the people in this situation is above the age of consent and may even be quite experienced, but he still doesn’t have a clue what he’s getting himself into. The other one is close to fifty and should really know better— _does_ know better—and is fucking responsible.

Celestino’s not going to pretend he doesn’t want or like this: he does, on both counts. But they’re not just two random dudes hooking up on Grindr. Phichit is an internationally competitive skater, and Celestino is his coach. There’s a reason why coaches and athletes aren’t supposed to sleep with each other. Celestino can write an essay on what can go wrong in this situation and count on the fingers of one hand what probably won’t.

“Phichit.” Coach voice. Harsh, but necessary. “I like you. I’m a sure thing,” he continues, softer, because he is—between coaching and impromptu locker room performances, he _has become_ — and at his age he’s got no business lying, least of all to himself. “This isn’t me turning you down. But if we go ahead, you’re going to have to listen to my side of this, and you’re going to respect it. I won’t have another Katsuki Yuuri on my hands.”

This is exactly the wrong thing to say: it makes Phichit angry, this time for real. Celestino cuts him off right as he opens his mouth to retort. “I don’t know happened in his head last year, but it made the difference between coming up last at the GPF and blowing his Nationals, and a world record. I refuse to have that be you. Emotional matters aren’t harmless. So: button up your jeans, sit down, and listen.”

The murderous look’s still there, but Phichit, thank god, does as he’s told. He settles into the arm-chair, his legs spread and his elbows on them, and glares at Celestino under his fringe. Celestino’s eyes can’t help but travel: over his thighs, his forearms, his slim hips, the line of his shoulders.

He sighs and gets up to pour them both a drink.

“I hope Jack’s Okay,” he says, as that’s the only thing he’s currently got in his house. He comes back with another tumbler and pours Phichit a finger, then tops off his own glass.

Phichit’s still mad. “Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not. I told you: I’m a sure thing. You got me. Whatever it is you want from me, you’ll get it—but if we don’t want this to explode on us, I need to know exactly what that is.”

“Whatever?” Phichit raises an eyebrow.

Celestino nods and takes a drink. “Whatever.” It’s not like it’ll be a hardship. “I’m an adult, I can handle it. What I don’t want to have is miscommunication, misunderstandings and unnecessarily hurt feelings. If we can’t negotiate for what we want, _explicitly_ , it will come back to bite us in the butt. Not can, not may, _will_. Normal people may be able to afford being distracted over a lover’s tiff; you can’t. If we do this, I want to make sure that we’ve done our level best to have it not compromise your performance.”

“Anything?” Phichit sounds slightly incredulous. Trust _that_ to be the portion of this lecture his hormone-addled brain gets stuck on.

“Anything.”

Phichit grins. “You liked it! All this time, watching me—you liked it!”

Seriously? There was any doubt about this? “I liked it.” Celestino says and damns his soul. “You’re very, very hard not to like.”

“Are you sure you don’t want…” Phichit looks up from under his lashes and Celestino thanks God for not being fifteen years younger. It’s hard enough not to give in as is.

“I want. But not yet. Not until we’ve talked about it. I’m not conducting experiments with your career and neither should you.”

Phichit licks his lips. “I want to sit on your lap,” he says. “I want to unbutton my jeans, and rub my cock through my boxers until they’re wet and you can smell me, and then I want to take it and finish on your shirt. And I want you to watch, and keep your hands to yourself. I want you to really, really pay attention.” He sips at his whiskey and looks at Celestino over the rim of his tumbler. “Was that explicit enough?”

The cheeky shit. “That part’s easy.” Celestino smirks. “As long as I’m not dead of a heart attack,” he adds thoughtfully.

Phichit grins like the cat who got the cream, and before Celestino's tipsy brain can sort out what’s going on he finds himself with a lapful of skater. From this close, Phichit smells faintly like designer perfume. He also weighs deliciously on his thighs. _Hands to yourself_ , his brain issues a reminder.

Celestino closes his eyes. It’s the last way he’s got to say no.

“Please. Go home now and think about it.” Celestino says, at the end of his tether. “I’m already going ahead with this against my professional ethics. Work with me—don’t make it harder to do what’s right.” There’s other things he doesn’t say: that if this ever gets out or goes south, that’ll be it for him as a coach. Nobody will be lining up to train with a fifty-year-old has-been who’s known for compromising his athletes, not with the likes of the Katsuki-Nikiforovs, Popovich and Giacometti hitting the market in the next couple of years. But this is not on Phichit; this is on Celestino, who knows the consequences full well but still says, “You’ll have everything you want—just not yet.”

“When?” There’s a pout in Phichit’s voice.

“Next week, Friday. We’ll have dinner and we’ll talk. Think about everything—who you’d like me to be to you. How much time you’d like to spend together. What you’d like us to do, in bed and out…”

Eyes closed, hands to yourself. Celestino exhales.

“Ciao Ciao? You Okay?”

No, he’s not. He’s got a twenty-one-year old skater in top competitive form in his lap, and now there’s a palm on his cheek, just holding. It’s all he can do not to nuzzle into it.

“Hmmm,” he tries nonetheless, still squeezing his eyes.

“Can I have just this? Then I’ll go home, I promise.” There’s the lightest touch of lips on Celestino’s. Then Phichit gets up, just like he said he would.

It’s in this moment that Celestino knows: he won’t be able to deny this kid. Anything. There’s no fool like an old fool, and Ciao Ciao is, apparently, the greatest fool of all.

*~*~*

He ends up finishing the bottle and spending all of Saturday in bed. In a way, he is relieved, despite the unrelenting headache and the nausea. Once he can keep down a sufficient number of painkillers, the hangover makes his brain feel like it’s wrapped in cotton wool. It’s welcome, that feeling. For all the noise he made about being an adult, yesterday got to him, and hard. It’s nice to have some shelter from the rawness of it all for a little while more.

On Sunday, he looks around his house.

There’s a thing that happens to houses as they age with you. A layer of dust settles over the CDs and seeps between the yellowed pages of books. The upholstery fades. There's a stain on the wall from where you swatted that mosquito then never quite got to wiping it off. Mail, old and new, knick-knacks, and change are all mixed-in under the coffee table. On one of your shelves, in the dust, is an odd button which came off of a shirt you keep even though you’re not even sure it still fits you.

And there’s a thing that happens to people—there’s the toenails you never bother to clip right, the hairs sticking out of a mole that you can’t be arsed to cut.

And there’s a thing that happens to old, maudlin bachelors when the sun itself barges into their life and figures it would put a hand on their cheek: suddenly it makes you see your life anew and remember all the toenails and the missing buttons you’ve been putting off.

Celestino stands in the middle of his living room and wonders where he should even start.

In the end, he goes with a time-honored tradition: when beset by chores, go to Starbucks.

He sips at an espresso at a small outdoor table and gazes thoughtfully at a couple in their thirties with a large yellow Lab resting at their feet.

On the way back home, he gets four large rolls of black trash bags.

He starts by emptying all bedroom drawers. People say your living space reflects your psychological state; he wonders what the pile of faded t-shirts, mismatched socks (occasional toe-hole) and mostly track gear says about his. Two woefully outdated suits go into the trash bag number one, followed by any t-shirt not from an event he actually wants to remember—and by all of his discolored, saggy boxers.

At trash bag number six, he takes a break and logs into /r/Thailand. He thanks the Internet Gods for anonymity and types: _I [47M], a middle-aged professional, seem to have caught the eye of a Thai_ _man_ _a_ _round_ _half my age_ _[21M]_ _. I would like to give him a dating experience that makes him feel valued and appreciated,_ _and hopefully, one where he’ll have fun_ _. What are some common things that Thai couples do while courting?_

He reads over the thing and sends it off into the ether, then he’s back to the bedroom pile.

Thirteen bags in, Celestino’s got almost no clothes left and moves on to shoes, then towels and bed linen. He starts a shopping list and tinkers over it with a cup of coffee; stuffs four bags for Goodwill into his car, and brings all else to the curb.

That done, he dares to log back onto Reddit. One of the top-voted comments is, “You don’t need to do anything, man, just give him twenty bucks.” It makes Celestino inexplicably sad; Phichit, to him, has always been Phichit—bubbly joy, determined on the ice, young, friendly, fashionable, lands his triple axels kinda wonky. He’s never thought that for many, Phichit may be nothing but a stereotyped cardboard cut-out of their prejudices about Thailand. Celestino’s foreign too, but he’s not foreign-foreign; he knows there’s a difference.

There’s also helpful people, talking about matching t-shirts and taking pictures with sugary drinks from the mall and going to temple for a date—but only if you’re serious. _Meeting the parents signals marriage intention_ and oh, god, Phichit has parents somewhere and they’re probably younger than Celestino, who could have actually _fathered_ Phichit in his twenties. _Utter madness, all of this_ , Celestino thinks and rubs his face, firmly resolving to focus on boba tea and matching clothing and not at all on parents.

He closes his laptop, gets up, and figures he’ll go to drop off his donations—and buy boxers that don’t look like they were made in 1983.

*~*~*

When he comes into the rink on Monday morning, Celestino finds Phichit on the ice, already warming up. It is early and quiet; the junior kids are yet to trickle in after breakfast at the dorms. He waves, and Phichit skates over.

They take a moment to just look at each other, neither of them sure what exactly one says in this no-man’s land of potential relationships, half-defined.

Celestino figures he’d go first. He is, after all, the adult in this mess. Or something.

“This week, show me this can work.” He says softly—much more so than when he usually dispenses his advice for the day. “I need to know that on the ice, we can put it aside and be professional. If we can’t, I’m out of this, even if your locker room antics turn my balls navy.”

“I- thank you.” Phichit nods, and looks at him right in the eyes. “For this. Also, that thing that you posted on Reddit.” Celestino opens his mouth. Closes it. Feels like he’s turning tomato-red in the face. He hasn’t been busted acting like this much of a fool since he wrote a love letter to the straightest hockey player at his rink, and signed it. Giacomo Stefanini, tall-dark-and-handsomest of all, is now a big-bellied high-school PE teacher with three kids, two of them in college.

Phichit studies his face. “You care.” He doesn’t sound like he pities him, more like he can’t believe his luck.

“Yes, I do.”

“So, I can really, like, ask for anything?” _Even being loved?_ is what Celestino hears.

“Yeah,” he says.

Phichit grins and skates off, gathering speed, and does a flawless triple axel, double loop, triple toe combination. Then he speeds up again and does another triple axel, right in front of Celestino.

*~*~*

Given the dildo on the locker room floor and the living room peep show offer, Celestino shouldn’t have been surprised to discover that he’s created a monster.

Phichit comes back from lunch break with a set of colored pens, a journal, an honest to god yellow legal pad, and a set of apple-shaped post-its. He arranges them on the side board of the rink, just a tad too far away for Celestino to be able to peek unnoticed. Every now and then, though, he’d skate over and jot something down before getting back to practice.

As far as Celestino’s been able to figure out, there’s at least five lists going at different places in the journal, each marked by a folded corner. The legal pad looks like it’s for free-writing. He doesn’t want to think about the post-its.

The juniors giggle because they adore friendly and brotherly Phichit who always has time for their skating and their selfies—and who, apparently, has zero sense of self-preservation and has told them that he’s making a list of the qualities of his ideal partner. Celestino has to scold them off of trying to peek in the legal pad on at least four different occasions.

He almost scolds Phichit, too, because if he’s to judge by all the bottom-lip biting and the pen-sucking that happens when Phichit sits to write in the bleachers during mid-afternoon break, anything in that pad is very much not for fourteen-year-olds. Celestino catches himself wondering how Phichit’s not afraid to leave it lying about where anyone can see, but then his brain flashes back to his perfect, lube-slicked butt-cheeks bouncing over a dildo right in front of the locker room door, and yeah, that’s probably the answer to _that_ question.

Speaking of-

“Phichit!” he calls over once his trainee’s within hearing distance, and waves him close. “I’ll be steering clear of the gym and the locker room this week. Thought you should know.” A temporary moment of something flashes in Phichit’s eyes, so Celestino adds, quieter: “I’m a sure thing, remember? I said it, I mean it. It’s just for this week.”

Phichit nods, then proceeds to practice his triple flip with a determination so fierce Celestino thinks one of the Russians has possessed him. Celestino can’t help but feel proud.

*~*~*

He gathers his things from his office at the end of the day, lulled into a false sense of security. He should have known—he should have—but he’s still surprised when he finds one of the apple post-its on his laptop screen, where anyone who walks in can see. It says, _I_ _want you to watch me finger myself until I come._ Celestino’s brain shorts right into a 3D mental image, complete with little moans and drippy lube. Having caught Phichit full-on at it four times now, he gets the sinking feeling that he knows _exactly_ how it would look like.

Then the sinking feeling sinks some more: there were a lot of things on Phichit’s lists. This can’t be the only note.

Filled with half-excitement, half-dread, he goes looking. There’s another one in the top drawer of his desk, where pens and tape and pins for the cork board go, mixed with old receipts and his secret stash of Dove bars. It says, W _ill you hold me and pet my hair_ _and_ _call me beautiful_ _?_

Also, half of the chocolate is missing.

There’s also a note on the seat of his chair— _I wish I could bounce on your lap here—_ and one in the pocket of his coat: _I like it how thoughtful you are, and it means the world to me that_ _you want to do this right._ When he changes out of his trainers and into his street shoes, he finds more inside: _I’ve had the worst crush, for the longest time_ in the right one, and _I wanted you to find me; I was thinking of you_ in the left.

Celestino gathers them all and places them carefully in his wallet.

On his way out to the parking lot, he checks for replies to his question on Reddit. /u/sunshineonice has written, _I’m pretty sure I’m your boy_ _(dates and ages match, also—/u/HeavenlyWaffles? i *gigglesnort*)_ _, and this_ _post_ _is the sweetest thing. You guys, he refuses to touch me until_ _I tell him exactly what I want_ _s_ _o_ _he can_ _make sure_ _he’ll do right by me._ _I kid you not, I’ve been banished for a week to formulate my demands-_ _I have until Friday_ _:D._

_As revenge, I’ve been making Lists of Ideas right in his direct line of sight, and I suck on my pen like a pro every time he looks._ _I’ll tease you ‘till your balls turn navy, old man,_ _and_ _then_ _I’ll_ _ride you so hard_ _you wouldn’t know what hit you <3_

“ _I don’t know what's hit me already,”_ writes Celestino before heading home.

*~*~*

That night, Celestino works on the living room until ten past eleven, then thinks of Phichit in the shower. He wakes up to a heart-shaped card that’s been slid through his mail slot during the night. There’s no name on the envelope, but the inside of it says, _for our first time, please put me in your bed where it smells like you, and cover me with kisses; suck on my neck and my nipples till I beg for it then press me into the bed; don’t touch me, I want to come on your cock,_ _moving_ _slow and steady, hitting me exactly there and exactly right-_

_hold me close after_

_in the morning, make me coffee_

_let me rub myself on your thigh, in the kitchen, while you’re cooking breakfast-_

Celestino puts the card away because if he ends up thinking too much about it he’ll never make it to work on time. He thinks he’s won the battle, but then there’s an apple post-it on his car window: _I think about you all the time_

At the rink, slid inside his gym locker through the crack under the door: _I hope you won’t think I’m annoying when I start rambling about developing ice skating in Thailand—yes, I know it’s a tropical country..._

On the floor, when he unlocks his office door: _If I asked you about your life, would you tell me? Also, I’ve been thinking of running my thumb on the underside of your cock head, where it makes a little v._

It’s only Tuesday morning and, somehow, Celestino needs to make it through to Friday.

 

_________________________________________________________-

i Celesti = celestial, heavenly. Cialde = waffles. I choose to intepret this as a reference to his 6-pack ;)

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Um hello please have 2,647 words of Ciao Ciao fretting in a fluffy fashion. Still no sex. I needed some fluffy tenderness after last chapter, so, dear eight people who actually follow this, please bear with me? [Last paragraph from previous chapter slightly edited and moved to the begining of this one because it grew into its own thing]

Tuesday night after work, he empties all kitchen cupboards and wipes them clean. Another seven black bags go in the trash—this time, full of chipped plates, ancient condiments, and a hand mixer he can’t get to work. In the mean time, Phichit has explained his post-it offensive to Reddit, pictures included, and their post is being upvoted through the roof. _Still no idea what hit me,_ Celestino types in the comments. _Pray I survive until Friday._

On Wednesday morning, he gets a letter which looks like it’s been ripped out of the yellow legal pad. It’s the most detailed, painstaking description of how Phichit imagines it would be like to be eaten out first thing in the morning, then fucked long and hard and thorough. In the fantasy, Celestino comes inside him; then during practice, Phichit can feel his asshole throb and Celestino’s come leak out.

This time, Celestino _is_ late to work. He couldn’t have stopped himself from reading that if he’d wanted to.

When he makes it in at twenty past eight, his goals for the day mainly center on not thinking about come while watching Phichit do spins. It goes about as well as it can be expected, but Celestino gives himself a pat on the back for effort.

In his office, there is a _What music do you like?_ on his laptop screen (the tameness comes as a relief) and a Ferrero Rocher box in his drawer, presumably to replace Monday’s stolen chocolate.

After work, Celestino signs his name on a $2800 receipt for a new king-size mattress. For his trouble, he gets 20% off of cotton sheets with thread count so high they look kind of shiny. He gets three sets—gray, cream, and brown—and, once the sales clerk figures he’s down for blowing cash, different sizes of matching cushions and two sets of fluffy towels the same grey as the sheets. He pays to get it all delivered. Then he calls Mike Heller and invites him out for a drink.

Mike Heller is a gruff, overweight physio who can crack walnuts and bend beer bottle caps flat with his bare hands (true story: he shows off when drunk enough). Mike goes only to sports bars, and once there, can be relied on to stare at whatever football game re-run is on the TV and work on his whiskey as methodically as he works on all the hockey players he massages all day. It's exactly who Celestino needs tonight. They sit at the bar in fraternal, constipated macho silence, and they drink. Every now and then, they talk about the game. Celestino buys him two drinks as a thank-you for being an island of sanity in whatever it is that his life has become. 

*~*~*

There’s no mail or notes on his car on Thursday morning, but there’s Phichit cornering him in his office, stealing a kiss on his cheek and saying, “I’m sorry, I fell asleep, I was so tired.” Celestino puts his hands on Phichit’s shoulders and presses his lips into his forehead. He takes a couple of breaths to just stand there. Anyone could walk past the office and see them through the small window on his door, but Celestino can’t care, not yet.

“You’re training.” He says gently. “Rest is more important; please make that your priority. Even if you stopped with the notes right now I’d have enough to last me a lifetime.”

“Ciao Ciao” Phichit's lashes tremble and suddenly he's being hugged, hard and fast, Phichit plastered into him from head to toe—or rather, toe to chest, where all 165cm of Phichit end.

Celestino hugs him back; pets his hair and murmurs, “Beautiful, beautiful.”

*~*~*

Somehow, there ends up being an apple note on his lunch box. It says, _I want us to go clubbing together and I want to mess around with_ _random_ _guys while you watch._

Celestino hasn’t been to a club since 1991. He sighs and wonders why he thought that the legal pad letter would be the extent of what Phichit would throw at him.

 _I would like that, too_ , he writes on the back of the post-it, and sticks it into Phichit’s locker.

*~*~*

On Thursday night, Celestino hires a cleaning service for his house. He’s finished going through cupboards and drawers—his house is a small two-bedroom, with the guest bedroom almost never in use—but while everything he plans to keep is safely back in the drawers, sorted and folded, there’s miscellaneous piles of semi-useful stuff all over the floor and the upholstery and curtains need a wash with one of those special vacuums only professional people have.

He's very deliberately booked the cleaners for all day Saturday. It's a rather smart move, if he says so himself: if the cleaners haven't been in, Friday's night is less likely to end in a desperate mess of tangled limbs with Phichit. He wants them to have time to process whatever ends up being said on Friday. He's doing this right if it kills him—which, judging by how he spends all his time thinking of Phichit again, it most likely will.

Then his mattress arrives, and he needs to sort out all that.

He hasn’t heard from Phichit since lunch; he hopes the kid’s taken to heart his advice to get some sleep.

He collapses, exhausted, at almost midnight on his new mattress and his new sheets.

*~*~*

Celestino’s got butterflies in his stomach from the moment he wakes up on Friday. There’s no notes, so hopefully Phichit slept. He makes himself a coffee, the brewed kind, not an espresso, and he sits on his couch to sip. Then he heads in to work.

He’s early to practice, but Phichit’s there even earlier, looking just as nervous as Celestino feels. Phichit can be shy about the strangest things. Getting caught jerking off in the shower, accidentally-on-purpose? No big deal. Going out for a dinner date? Like you’d be leading him to slaughter.

Celestino gives him time.

“I think I need to take a while longer,” Phichit says once he dared to skate over.

Celestino breathes in, breathes out. “It’s been a lot, hasn’t it.” It has been, for both of them, it looks like. “Can I hold you a little?” He asks.

Phichit wordlessly steps into his arms and snuggles close. Celestino pets his hair. Seemed to work last time.

“Dial it down if you need to. I’m a sure thing here, I’ll wait. Just think about it, and let me know if you need a hug or to talk.”

Phichit nods into his sweatshirt.

“If it makes you feel any better, I am really nervous, too—I woke up at fifteen to five this morning. I can also use some extra time. I like you back, kiddo. I like you so, so much.”

*~*~*

Saturday is taken over by cleaning. Celestino enjoys how everything looks newer with layers upon layers of settled dust wiped off, the tiles clean, and the carpet, couch, and curtains slightly damp from the washing vacuum. His house looks like it’s got colors now. It’s nice.

In the evening, he goes for a grocery run and grabs scented candles—somehow, he thinks his boy would be the type. Then, even though he just got groceries, he gets take-out for dinner and falls asleep on the couch.

His mom calls after church on Sunday, like she's done every single week since he turned seventeen and moved to train in Toronto.

She talks about her pains and aches. A blood test came back and the doctor told her she’s in excellent health for her age. And Wednesday night! The neighbor’s cat snuck in and took off with a piece of tilapia filet that was defrosting on the counter: _c_ _an_ _you believe it_? Aunt Maria is well and she visited yesterday, bearing pictures of grandkids Thomas and Michaela. When will you find a nice girl to settle with, Celestino, you’re not getting any younger.

“I think I may have met someone,” he says, because she is his mom and it’s been a while since there’s been so much in his life to try not to hope for. And also, because he doesn’t want to get to the part of this conversation where she starts talking about how she’s nearing the end of her life and the only thing she wants before she's gone is to see her grandkids.

“It’s very, very early days yet,” he says when she inevitably asks him to bring the girl over.

It’s the wrong thing to say—his mom tells him that she’s dying so he shouldn’t dawdle, anyway.

*~*~*

Sundays are also his meal prep days. So, after his mom gets off the phone, he starts chopping things to sort into Tupperware containers.

In the middle of it, he gets in a mood and puts on Sarah McLahlan. It’s been a while since he’s listened to her.

On the kitchen table, his phone’s message alert is flashing.

 _Is it Okay, can I text you,_ Phichit’s written.

 _As much as you want,_ Celestino writes back. And why, oh why, is he surprised when the next message that comes is a dick pic.

 _I want to cover it with kisses,_ he writes. _It, and all of you._

He starts feeling self-conscious about the outdatedness of his sexting skills as soon as he hits send.

Phichit sends him back a little heart.

*~*~*

The last thing Celestino does on Sunday afternoon is google the nearest nail place and drive down for a pedicure. His technician is friendly and plump, and pokes merciless, good-natured fun at him as soon as she ferrets out what a guy like him is doing at a place like this.

He gets roped into a manicure, too, and ends up leaving with a set of face cream, hand cream, and body lotion that smell tolerably neutral. They come in a branded paper bag with a brochure detailing the salon's couple specials. 

That night, Celestino dabs cream on his face, admires his non-jagged toenails, and feels completely ridiculous.

He falls asleep wondering how his life would have turned out if his mom were more like his nail technician.

*~*~*

On Monday during lunch break, he goes for a haircut.

*~*~*

He stops by the CVS on his way back and impulsively buys a packet of lime-green post-its. _Beautiful_ , he writes on one, and manages to sneak it on the inside cover of Phichit’s journal while Phichit's distracted with his phone.

The post-it later ends up on Reddit.

Celestino figures he did good.

*~*~*

Tuesday and Wednesday are quiet.

There’s a new quality to the peace that settles over him while he watches Phichit on the ice, the silence of the rink only broken by the scraping of blades. By an unspoken agreement, they've both started to go to practice early, enjoying that liminal time between sunrise and when the juniors come in, constitutionally incapable of silence.

It is a marvelously, gloriously peaceful time.

By now, Celestino should really have known better.

 _Um, so,_ he gets a text on Wednesday around five. He stares at his phone and sends back a question mark when no continuation seems to come.

 _So, hypothetically_ , Phichit writes.

Celestino waits for the next part.

_What would you say if someone you were with was into camming?_

Oh, idiot, idiot boy! Celestino rubs his hands into his face. Thank fuck this came out. _I’d say that if a skater of mine _—someone_ who aims for highly visible international-level podiums _—_ hypothetically ever did this, I’d pull on his ear, slap the back of his neck,_ _and make him take all of it down_ _. Sponsorships ride on this, your future coaching career rides on this, your ability to be taken seriously in Thai professional skating rides on this—_

He presses send, still angry, then puts his cell phone away until his Italian temper lets down.

Twenty minutes later, he opens his laptop because he’s a masochist.

With a sense of dread and premonition, he goes on Chaturbate and does a search for sunshineonice.

35, 483 followers. A white, fluffy tail butt-plug peeking between perfect butt-cheeks that he would recognize anywhere. Golden wig curls drape down light-brown skin. _Follow my twitter for surprise show times!_

Celestino sighs. Picks up his phone. Texts,  _Thank you for telling me about this._ Rubs his face. _I’m looking at your profile picture—_ _i_ _t would be a crime to take it down, but please don’t ruin your career over this._

_It’s Okay I’m using make-up_

Celesitno rubs his face. Again. How? How does make-up make it Okay?? Idiot boy can still get recognized-

And then a picture comes in. Full magenta lips, chiseled cheeks, eyeliner and pink shadow and false eyelashes.

 _Wow_ , he types—because, wow.

Phichit sends back a grinning smiley.

_There’s still your voice. You just need one guy to put two and two together-_

There are no messages for a while.

_What if that turns me on? The idea that someone might recognize me._

Celestino thinks about how to spin it. _Kiddo, you’re beautiful, but if you get sold out to the tabloids they'll drag you through the mud- and you deserve so, so much better. You belong on the podium, both at the GPF and at Worlds; I hate the idea that you're putting yourself at risk even as my brain can't sort out whether to stare at your lipstick or at the bunny-tail plug._

Another silence. Celestino would get himself a drink, only he's out of Jack. 

_Guess now’s not the time to tell you about escorting when I’m low on cash or dancing at Freddie’s with Yuuri 2 yrs ago_

Aaaand, no. No, now is not the time to tell him this, because, Jesus Christ, does this kid not have any sense of self-preservation-

 _Have you more?_ He types, because he does know better by now.

_Just some teenage bullshit from back in Thailand_

Right—as opposed to this, which is not teenage bullshit. At all. Fuck—it’s a work night, but Celestino really, really needs a drink.

He gets up, picks up his keys, and drives to the liquor store.

_*~*~*_

He is two large whiskeys in and he feels a little bit less like banging his head in his coffee table.

He’s put on jazz and turned on the standing lamp in the corner for a more cozy, relaxed atmosphere. Relaxing on the couch in the semi-dark—he needs this before going back to dealing with the little terror that he’s agreed to let into his life.

There’s a knock on his door at exactly 8:03PM. Celestino’s got the sinking feeling that he knows exactly who it is.

He swigs the whiskey that’s left in his glass—there’s a very high probability that he'll need it—and goes to open the door for Phichit.

Who is standing on his front porch looking worried but thoroughly earnest, swimming in a sweatshirt-sweatpants combo around four sizes too large that is obviously borrowed from someone.

“Are you mad at me?” Phichit says, puppy-dog-eyes on max.

Even if he was, Celestino can’t be mad now. Because this ridiculous kid, god bless him and his pure heart, probably thinks that this outfit—oversized sleeves rolled up, and all—somehow makes him less sexy.

This is Phichit, being respectful and having Platonic intentions. The sight chases all annoyance away.

“Not mad. Just worried.”

“Can I come in? I just want to cuddle on the couch, I swear.”

Celestino lets him. Of course Celestino lets him.

“Wow, you tidied!” is the first thing out of Phichit’s mouth as he stands in the middle of the living room, a little awkward.

“Don’t rub it in.” _Freed up space in the cupboards, too,_ Celestino wants to say but wisely doesn’t.

“Looks nice. Still cosy.”

Yup—awkward. Celestino gets another glass and pours a finger in each, then sits down on the couch.

“Come here, then,” he tells Phichit and opens his arms.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Phichit and Ciao Ciao are excellent at cuddling—all Platonically, like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is this story done? no. because have i resolved the emotional shit i've piled up last chapter? no. but have 1.7k of **unbetaed** porn, you utter, utter perverts. 
> 
> Please tell me if the writing snags you or you spot typos. Just copy-paste the crappy passage in a comment. I'll give it an **edit in a couple of days** , but right now it just needs to be OUT because this story has to get unblocked already.
> 
>  
> 
> **If crap writing bothers you, wait.**

Phichit looks at him from the middle of the room. Looks at Celestino's spread hands. Swallows.

“Will you be Okay?” he says. “Last time I sat on you, you weren’t.”

Last time Phichit sat on him, Celestino was taken by surprise, overwhelmed, and in all honesty, a little terrified of doing the wrong thing and causing Consequences. He’s still antsy now, but he’s made up his mind. He knows what he’s getting himself into—probably.

“I will be. Come—like last time.”

It’s kind of mesmerizing, watching the bobble of oversized tracksuit shuffle towards the couch. And then the couch dips. A knee lands on one side, another knee—on the other, and the warm weight of Phichit settles across his legs.

He remembers: no hands. So he keeps them down his side and looks up at Phichit.

Phichit sits still and looks back, eyes roaming over Celestino’s body and zeroing in on his bulge, which is firming with every panting breath he takes—and it is _so intense_ , just this, being so hard for Phichit and… _presenting it_ , almost, for Phichit to look at.

Celestino looks back; wonders how it’s fucking possible that Phichit would think a baggy pair of sweatpants would detract from his firm, full thighs—which he is not. allowed. to touch, just like the ass—the same one he saw bounce and gape as it descended on a dildo; the same one he will probably see again, pert and round and hairless as it stretches around his dick—

It dawns on him: it’s the touching. Because he can’t touch, he can’t _get past_ this; he is fixated and craving, trying to push his hands back into the headrest, wanting to push his hard dick up.

Phichit’s groan takes him out it; he swipes his eyes up to see him lick and bite his lips. “Fuck, Ciao Ciao, you’re so hot; I want it so much, please let me-” he says and closes his eyes, panting.

“Want what?” Celestino says, raspy.

Phichit squirms in his lap; scoots a little closer.

“Tell me, sunshine,” he makes an educated guess.

Phichit’s hips buck up. _Score._

Celestino looks at him, the line of his jaw, so close. “Tell me,” he says. “I want to know exactly what you’ll do.” He realizes Phichit’s hands are down his sides, too, balled into fists: Phichit’s been stopping himself, too. Does he feel the same way? This obsessed? This needy?

“I’ll… fuck, I want to do everything,” Phichit says, a little overwhelmed.

“Step by step. Tell me. And I’ll let you.”

Phichit looks at Celestino and blushes, and it is absolutely adorable on the color of his skin. Then he rallies and breathes in. “I’d like you to remove your shirt,” he says. “I want to see your arms. Your pecs. Your abs. I checked you out at the gym; I know exactly how you look: the moles and the hair-”

“Did you now?”

“Yeah. I… sorry.” Phichit looks down, shy to admit it. There’s a story behind this, and Celestino will get it out one day, but not now.

“So you liked what you saw?” He says instead.

“Yeah.”

“And you want to see it again?”

“Yeah.”

“And then?”

“And then I’ll push down the elastic of my sweatpants. Hook it under my balls, so it pushes from below, and they’re propped up...”

“Like that, do you?”

“Yeah… and then you’ll look at my dick.”

“I don’t think I could stop looking at your dick if I tried,” Celestino rumbles. “Do it, then. Hook your pants under your balls. Show me.”

Phichit moans and pulls on his pants completely gracelessly, digging into fabric. Between the bunches of sweatshirt and sweatpants now there’s dick: darker than the rest of Phichit but completely hard and sticking up, and Ciao Ciao can fucking _smell it_. He breathes in and looks, the pink head standing out even more than it would on a pasty guy like himself, just begging you to suck on it.

“It’s a really beautiful dick,” he says, because it is. “Will you touch it for me?” he asks softly.

Phichit nods, still blushing.

“Spit in your hand and rub it in… spit a lot… that’s right. Now spread it on the head; I want to see it glisten.”

Glisten it does, beautifully so, and Celestino can see why the kid has 35,000 followers. He plays with it, fingers petting and sliding lightly, thumb swiping over and tracing the slit. “Wow,” Celestino says, and can’t stop looking.

Phichit grins. “Shirt off.”

“Fuck.”

“Shirt off, if you want to see more,” Phichit repeats, and Okay, yeah, shirt—Okay. Celestino needs to sit up a little to remove it, and his own cock gets closer to Phichit’s—and their dicks can touch, if Phichit would just lean a little—and he groans as he tosses his shirt aside and sinks back into the couch, because fuck. Absolutely, fucking fuck.

“Thank you,” Phichit says with the cutest, shiniest smile, and reaches out. Celestino lets him—it’s the hand that used to be on his dick, and it’s sliding up and down his chest now with honest appreciation. “I really like this,” Phichit says. “I’m going to rub my dick, now,” he says, and does. “And I’ll make myself come, all over your chest… or maybe I won’t. I can be really, really patient, you know?” Phichit tilts his head innocently to the side. “Really, really patient. I can play with it forever. Build myself up. Until my balls are full of jizz for you,” he says as he cups them, as if to show how heavy they are already.

“Do you want to see me come, Ciao Ciao?”

Celestino’s throat is dry. He can’t—he just nods.

“Will you look at me all the time? Without touching yourself, unless I tell you?”

He nods again, and that phrase, _unless I tell you_ , snags somewhere in his brain. What would Phichit have him do? Maybe he will let him come, his brain supplies. Maybe he’ll remove the sweatshirt and Celestino would see his chest, too, and he’ll jerk himself off until Phichit is covered-

“Aww, it’s gotten so dry,” Phichit pouts a little. “Will you spit in my hand?”

The hand goes right under Celestino’s nose.

“Spit a lot,” Phichit says, echoing him, and swipes with one hand at the trail of saliva on Celestino’s bottom lip as he slathers his dick with the other.

Celestino groans because it shouldn’t be this hot, knowing that his spit is on Phichit’s dick—but it is. “Finish yourself,” he encourages. “Just give yourself what you want. You can play with it later; I’m sure you’ll blow my mind with how long you can last-”

And Phichit’s _proud_ to hear this; his chest curves a little and he makes a tiny, satisfied smile.

“Give in,” Celestino murmurs. “As hard as you want, as much as you want, exactly how you want it, c’mon...”

And that’s all it takes—for all his stamina, Phichit's worked up; they both are. “Beautiful,” Celestino says, and Phichit’s hand is flying over his dick, quick and shallow. He collapses into Celestino’s chest with a groan and keeps working himself, panting out a “Hug me” between staccato breaths.

“Get rid of this fucking shirt,” Celestino pulls. Phichit keens because this means he needs to _stop_ as it slides over his head, hand returning to his dick as soon as it possibly can.

“Come on, do it, kiddo, let me see how much you’ve got in there for me, come on,” Celestino says, and Phichit comes and comes and comes until he collapses in his own come, blissed out, on Celestino’s chest.

Celestino’s got one hand is around his back and pets his hair with the other; all he can do is murmur “beautiful” and “sunshine,” and feel utterly sorry for himself—because Phichit is sitting right on top of his own dick, still hard in his trousers, and not doing anything about it other than squirming occasionally just to give him grief.

“You didn’t touch it or touch me before I told you,” Phichit says eventually, next to his ear.

“Hmm.”

“You aren’t trying to get yourself off, either.”

“You haven’t let me,” Celestino says, feeling like he has passed some kind of test. “But I want to. I really, really want to.”

“How.”

“On your chest. Then you can lie back down and it can mix between us.”

At this, Phichit moans a little. “Can I take it out...”

“Help yourself, kiddo. You can do whatever you want to it.”

“I want to see _you_ do it this time. And… talk to me-” Phichit’s hands move down Celestino’s chest as he sits up. The little shit knows _exactly_ what kind of tease he’s being and loving every moment of it—and Celestino, damn him, loves it too: the delicious anticipation until the pressure around his dick releases and he feels just how uncomfortable it’s been, squished into his trousers.

Phichit takes the longest time just to look at it. Celestino watches him lick his lips. “Fuck, that’s gonna be so good going in, the way the head is small but it’s so thick in the middle—and then narrow at the base; I’m gonna feel this every time, in and out. Fuck.”

Celestino breathes. It’s all that he _can_ do.

“Tell me you’ll let me sleep here, Ciao Ciao,” Phichit looks at him, his eyes wide. “Tell me you’ll do me tomorrow, I want that inside me, I want your come in me, I don’t care if my ass is gonna hurt when I jump; just please say you will.”

Celestino sighs. “Yeah. Yeah, I will.” Then: “Thank fucking God you’re not asking me to sign over my house, cause I’ll pro’lly do that too.”

Phichit laughs one of his tinkly laughs and grins at his misery—and then he bends down, and _blows._ Celestino’s entire body shudders. Would it work to beg for mercy? Because he probably would, by this point.

“Do you want me to spit for you?” Phichit asks innocently.


	5. Chapter 5

Phichit lies on his naked chest, sticky and sweaty and firm. Celestino breathes into his hair and thinks—this right here is how you know you’ve gotten old: when the simple closeness of _this_ is almost better and more precious than having just come. 

Phichit doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to move either. Maybe they’re the same, then, Celestino muses. Maybe it’s not so much about being old as it is about being completely smitten.

Now that the tension of the past couple of days is temporarily at an ebb, and his head is less of a mess, Celestino finds himself quietly thankful. Because Phichit didn’t have to tell him any of this: he could have kept doing his online thing, and old boring CiaoCiao would have been none the wiser. 

But Phichit chose to tell. It's brave, and it's honourable, and it shows both integrity and respect for Celestino—and for _them_ , as a thing that’s worth being built. It makes Celestino even more smitten. Caring. Protective.

Celestino exhales and moves his palms over Phichit’s back. 

Phichit re-settles on his lap with a little sigh.

Yeah. Absolutely smitten.

But still.

“Please take it down,” Celestino says quietly. “I’m not mad, I’m not jealous, I don’t think any less of you over it.” Still, he can feel Phichit’s shoulders tense up under his hands. “In any other circumstance, I’d be happy that you get to have that.” He doesn’t want Phichit to get him wrong. Phichit is beautiful and successful, and it’s his prerogative to do this if he wants to. Celestino is not the kind of entitled douche who would try to control Phichit in the name of appeasing his own insecurities. If anything, he’s glad that the full responsibility for meeting all of Phichit’s sexual needs doesn’t fall on his own sorry fifty-year-old arse. 

And they need to talk all of this through; it needs to be completely clear, but first-

“You look so happy on that picture, and your make-up is so beautiful…”

“But?” Phichit says and sits up, and it dawns on Celestino that if he plays this wrong or if he makes it a choice between himself and the camming, Phichit will be out the door, crush or no crush. 

“I’m worried,” Celestino admits quietly. “About what it could do to your career.” He looks Phichit in the eyes; it’s important that Phichit gets it. “That’s all. I’m just worried.”

Phichit looks back, just as steadily. There’s something in his eyes; something that wasn’t there before, and that’s not usually there when Phichit smiles and laughs with the juniors or plays with his hamsters. 

“It’s worse if I don’t,” he says quietly. 

Celestino gives him space to talk. 

“Look, it’s… I understand if you don’t want to be with me after you hear that. But I’m not fucking dumb. I know the media would not be sweet and understanding, and sponsors won’t be either. And that I’m putting _your_ reputation at risk, too, if I get caught-”

Phichit takes a deep breath and lets it out. Then he closes his eyes. “I tried, Okay. But it’s better this way. Shit happens to you when you’re small and Asian and you-” He swallows. “I’d go jerk off where people would see me. In meat space. And not just people, big burly guys. So- fucking fuck it,” Phichit says as he stands up, moving for his clothes while trying not to meet Celestino’s eyes. 

Celestino adds it up—it’s not hard to—but right now, there’s only one part that is important. 

“Phichit,” Celestino says from the couch. “Hey.”

Phichit looks at him. His eyes are red.

Celestino spreads out his arms. 

Phichit looks at him some more. 

Celestino keeps his arms open. 

Finally—thank god—Phichit exhales and drops his sweatshirt back on the floor. He pads back silently to sit on Celestino’s lap.

Celestino holds him, relieved. “I want you to be safe. And I want you to get what you need. And I’m sorry for jumping to conclusions before hearing the entire story.”

“Are you serious?” Phichit asks, a little incredulous. 

“Yeah. I’m serious. Thank you for sharing this with me. It’s… braver than I would have been, in your shoes.”

“Thank _you_ ,” Phichit says quietly. 

Celestino sighs and pets him. “Let’s go shower? Then I can give you something of mine to wear and we can lounge around. I’d like you to stay for the rest of the night. Will you?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

It’s a weird shower. It’s been forever since Celestino showered with someone else, so it takes a moment to figure out how to navigate around each other. Mostly, they stay under the stream while the come on their chests de-congeals—Celestino, being Italian and hairy, is the one who really has problems here. 

Phichit lets himself be maneuvred and rubbed with shower gel, leaning into Celestino’s touch with his eyes closed. Celestino, in turn, takes his time. He figures he may as well let his actions speak where his words may not have done the best job: he rubs Phichit’s scalp with his new salon shampoo and conditioner, then massages his neck, his shoulders, his back. 

“Brace on the wall,” Celestino murmurs as his thumbs dig into the muscle of Phichit’s butt-cheeks. 

Phichit emerges from the shower pliant and slightly woozy, which is exactly what Celestino intended. One of the new grey towels in the bathroom: it’s large and a little damp and Celestino’s used it a couple of times, but he wraps Phichit in it nonetheless while he himself remains naked. 

In a sudden fit of tenderness, he pulls the Phichit-burrito to his naked chest. 

Phichit rests his head there, sighing quietly into Celestino’s chest.

Celestino sighs, too—they did so much of this so fast: cut to the quick, made promises.Maybe it’s understandable if both of them are a little reeling and need to take their time. 

And even if it all ends here, Celestino muses as he watches Phichit-burrito pad across the corridor and into his bedroom, curling up on the bed as is, towel and all, it would have been worth it. 

Clothes, then. If Phichit wants to dial down on whatever this insanity is that they’re doing and just cuddle with clothes on, Celestinoshould probably dress.

Call him sentimental, but he chooses one of the older t-shirts to give to Phichit—a dark-blue survivor of the great clothes purge with an ISU logo. It’s way too big on him, but it only brings back Celestino’s feeling of tenderness. 

Yup, sentimental alright, he thinks as he puts on a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants himself. He raises an eyebrow at Phichit, and Phichit nods. They somehow understand each other. 

Celestino pulls out another pair of sweats and tosses it at Phichit. 

Once Phichit is dressed, Celestino climbs into the bed and lets him curl into his side. 

 

________________________

 

There’s something to be said for lying next to each other quietly and without expectations, just taking the time to feel each other’s presence.  It’s soothing, and they both need soothed—Celestino figures Phichit needs it more, what with having just risked his relationship with his coach over trusting him with something like this. So he’s more than happy to take his time.

Phichit’s breath is calm and even—maybe he’s napping, maybe he’s just lying down with his eyes closed, who knows—and while listening to it, Celestino thinks: mostly about the things he wants to tell Phichit so he can make sure all is explicit and clear. He makes a mental list. Neither of them can afford a miscommunication—not around something like this. 

“I’m sorry,” Phichit says into his shoulder a short while after. 

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.” It’s the truth. 

“I wish I was… normal. If I could just stop, none of this would be a problem.” 

Celestino knows the frustration. There probably isn’t a gay guy his age who doesn’t. “I don’t wish you were normal,” he says evenly. 

Because he’s played the “I wish I could be normal” game. For example: if I could be normal and have a wife and kids, maybe mom would finally be happy.  Another example—and this one, he probably won’t tell Phichit, not any time soon: if he were noemal, he probably wouldn't have been fourteen, crushing on Stefanini the hockey player—wanting to kiss him, kneel for him, worship him, love him more than any girl could—and heard his mom remark off-handedly that AIDS is God’s punishment to gays and that if they choose not to stop sinning, then they deserve to die. 

You can’t I-wish-I-could-be-normal yourself out of who you are. God knows that Celestino, who was once raised Catholic and really loved his single mom, had tried hard enough. That’s game’s lost before you even start it. So, no: Celestino doesn’t wish Phichit were normal.

“Really?” Phichit actually opens his eyes and props himself up on one elbow to look at him. His eyes are wide, like it doesn’t compute where Celestino would come up with a thought like this: that Phichit is okay as he is.

“Yes. Really.” And this is going to be so embarrassing, but needs must. They’ve got no room for error here. Phichit needs to know. 

So Celestino takes a deep breath, steels himself, and tells him. 

How _it_ and the exuberance with which Phichit skates come from the same place. 

How, deep down, _it_ is the exact same thing that drives Phichit to perform, and raises the audience to their feet, clapping. 

How without the joy that’s bound up in that drive, Phichit wouldn’t be able to imagine the elaborate ice shows he wants to put up; wouldn’t be motivated to pursue .

How it’s many other things, but it’s also thrilling and exciting, wondering where Celestino will see him again, and how obscenely erotic it would be when he does. How Phichit’s camming photos are so beautiful and radiant, and how much joy he must be giving his fans—not just titillation, joy. 

How Andreas from Celestino’s juniors came in reserved and shy, but he saw Phichit’s smile, and slowly started smiling himself.

How much joy he gives _Celestino_ —yes, even though he’s fucking worried. 

Phichit looks at him, his eyes wide, throughout this lecture. Celestino’s never bee s so glad that he’s nearing fifty and that he’s way past giving a fuck about how cheesy, sappy and un-macho he sounds.

When Celestino sums it all up with one  of those of those inspirational sentences you usually find photoshopped over some tropical sunset—how love and desire are where all creativity spring from and should be owned and embraced—Phichit does that thing again: where he grins to his ears, wraps his arms around Celestino’s neck, and calls him Ciao Ciao with so much affection that Celestino doesn’t know what to do with himself. 

Then there’s kisses, and Phichit moulding himself close to his body and rubbing his hard dick in Celestino’s thigh, making tiny gasps into Celestino’s neck. Correction: Not Celestino—Ciao Ciao. He might as well accept his fate. 

With a sigh—because fucking twenty-year-olds—he sneaks a hand down Phichit’s belly and goes for his cock.

Phichit moans when Ciao Ciao’s fingers close around him, and comes in his fist. 

________________________

Because he is fucking ancient and a morning person, Celestino wakes at the first crack of dawn. It’s Thursday morning, which means practice, but Celestino takes one look at the black mop on the pillow next to him and sends a mass text saying that he’s sick. Yes, he knows he needs to be responsible—but surely, it will be  Okay , just this once, to take his time and look at the young man sleeping next to him, just because. 

To make him breakfast and a cup of coffee—see if his eyes would crinkle over the coffee table like he’d thought they would.

To lie lazily on the couch, Celestino on his tablet, reading the news, Phichit half on top of him, doing whatever Young People These Days do whenever their noses are glued to their phones, as Phichit’s tends to be. 

And then Phichit wakes up, stretches as he unwraps himself from the covers, and blinks lazily at Celestino. “Will you go to Starbucks with me?” His eyes twinkle and his lips curl up in excited mischief.

Which is how Celestino realises that they’ve got a problem. Well— _another_ problem, on top of being coach and skater, each with their baggage and history, and being far apart in age that there was no way for their libidos to ever be in sync. And the problem is, roughly, this: Phichit’s idea of a wonderful morning is to go make out somewhere semi-public. His idea of a fun night is to go clubbing and hit on guys, with Ciao Ciao enjoying the view. While Celestino is a homebody whose fantasies for Phichit revolve around coffee in the kitchen and jazz and whiskey on the couch—and hopelessly boring domesticity.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Phichit says, and Celestino feels horrible for the little confused frown between his eyebrows. He feels like it’s too much, the obstacles are too great, they will never make it anyway and here he is, a supposed fucking mature adult who told Phichit that he could take whatever Phichit threw at him, hopelessly attached after barely a week of this-

A warm palm cups his cheek and, fucking thankfully, brings his brain to a stutter. “Ciao Ciao?” Phichit says. He’s climbing out of the covers now so he can hug Celestino better, and-

“Hey. Breathe,” Phichit says. 

Good idea. It helps. 

“Okay. Why are you freaking out on me?” Phichit says.

“I wasn’t-”

“Hmm. Nice try, but I lived with Yuuri Katsuki for two years—you were _so_ freaking out on me.”

Celestino sighs and moves to get up. “I was, wasn’t I,” he muses. He’s not used to freaking out—it’s different, now that he’s got something to lose, even if it’s only his own naive hopes for the future. 

He walks to the kitchen and Phichit follows, yawning. “So.”

“Is it Okay if we stay here today? I can make breakfast and coffee.”

“We’re not heading to practice?”

Celestino feels like such an idiot. Of course this is what it was—Phichit thought they’d be heading out anyway and figured they may as well spice it up. Phichit’s got a point: this is Katsuki-level of irrationality, and he should drop it. 

“I texted everyone and said I’m not coming in,” Celestino says. “I know I’m supposed to be the responsible one here, but… I wanted to enjoy waking up with you.Have a quiet morning in.”

Phichit grins and his eyes crinkle—and Celestino can’t deny that a part of him relaxes. Phichit wants to be together with him, here. Phichit wants to do this. 

“A quiet morning in is good,” Phichit says and sits on the kitchen table, quietly watching Celestino open drawers, pull out coffee, start the machine. It’s… weird. Doing this in silence and being watched. He’d have expected Phichit to surround him with friendly chatter. 

What had _Phichit_ expected?

It starts to smell like coffee in the kitchen. 

Celestino pulls out two mugs. 

“Just black is OK,” Phichit says. 

The mugs make a quiet clink when Celestino sets them on the coffee table. 

“So. Wanna talk about it?” Phichit says, hands wrapped around the white-and-brown mug Celestino’s had since forever. His lips are pink in the middle, with a little brown in the corners. His eyes slit when he brings up the mug under his nose so he can smell it. 

Celestino tries to get all of this to imprint on his memory. They may work out, or they may not, but just for the sake of this moment, right here, it would have been worth it. 

“Is this about yesterday?” Phichit says.

“No.” Celestino sits back. Crosses one leg over a knee and leans back. 

Bides for time. 

Phichit’s not letting him off the hook.

“I’m glad yesterday happened, and I mean everything I said.” It’s just that they’ve passed the ‘safe’ part; the part where they admire each other from afar and can indulge in their respective fantasies without running the risk of having them clash with each other’s actual selves. Celestino figures this is normal in relationships—it _is_ normal, right?—but it doesn’t make it any less scary. It doesn’t make him feel any less like an ass for being a grown-ass adult who is scared, either. 

Phichit isn’t saying anything. He’s giving him space to talk, and it is absolutely, absolutely horrible.

“I feel like I’m too old and boring for you,” Celestino blurts out. “You’re just so…”

Phichit pins him down with a stare, and his eyes aren’t crinkling. “If you ever— _ever_ again—tell me that I am too much and I should pare myself down in order to fit into your life, I will be out that door and I will not be back.”

“Fair enough,” Celestino says. It’s a fucking minefield. “In fact, I’m glad to hear it.” He fiddles with his coffee cup. Traces the rim with a finger. Takes a long sip, then another one. Phichit’s still irritated, which Celestino supposes is normal.

“I wouldn’t want you to give up on who you are, or become any less for my comfort. We… you could sleep with whoever you want, do whatever you want, outside of this, I hope that much is clear.”

“Oh—you’re _allowing_ me, are you. Very generous.”

“No. More like, it was never a question,” Celestino says and rubs his face. Yes, he’s the older one here, but he’s also feels like he’s got nowhere near the requisite relationship experience to carry them through this. “The question is, will you be open to doing boring stuff with me? I… it’s too much, too fast. I will make out with you in front of the bathroom of some posh neighborhood Starbucks, but first I need to spend time with you quietly in the kitchen. I need to hold hands.” For some reason, it’s making him sad to talk about this-

-and that’s what this is about, isn’t it? He wants this to be more than a series of intense hook-ups, even though he’s very much not averse if it contains that, too. Whirlwind intensity and having fun are all fine and well, but he needs to bond—he needs to know that this will be a relationship, that their lives will be getting entwined with each other. 

When he and Phichit first started this—only a week and a half ago, but it seems like forever now—Celestino’d said that he will take whatever he can get. That whatever Phichit decides he wants or doesn’t want to do, he’d deal with, because he’s in control of himself and he’s a fucking adult. 

But the fact is, he’d lied. He hadn’t realised it at the time, but he’d lied. He should have realised that he’d lied when he’d cleaned his house out; when the “will you tell me about your life” notes of Phichit’s were his favourite ones; when he’d gone to Reddit, because he’d wanted to court Phichit _properly_ , damn it. 

About the only extenuating circumstance here is that he’d also lied to himself. 

“I need boring stuff, too,” he finally says. And probably therapy, he adds inside his own head. Definitely something to look into.

“You sound like you need to write,” Phichit says thoughtfully.

Celestino raises an eyebrow.

“When I started that journal—you know, the one with all the fantasies?—I had never done that before. I’d never seriously asked myself, ‘if you could have anything in a relationship, what would that be?’”

Celestino takes a sip of his coffee. Yes, he knows exactly which journal—that journal would be the bane of his existence. 

“But how about this?” Phichit suggests. “We finish our coffee, then we go to a Barns and Noble and get bagels or something, and then we get you a journal and we go to my place to get mine, and we come back here. And we lounge around, being boring and writing about a fantasy each. Then you show me yours and I show you mine.”

It’s a plan. It’s a plan, and Celestino’s grateful, because even being the sappy fucker that he is, he doubts he’d be able to look Phichit in the eyes and just… tell him that he wants to kiss and touch and cuddle on the couch with some jazz on. Because Celestino is many things—Italian, middle class, and well-versed in small talk and social niceties—but he’s also raised by a stiff-upper-lip mom and prefers to spend his evenings on his couch after getting peopled-out at the rink. His best friend is Mike the hockey physio. Celestino’s good at being sociable, but there’s being sociable and there’s admitting to your lover that what you really want in your heart of hearts is to cuddle.

________________________

Celestino stands in the middle of Barnes and Noble with a leather-bound journal in one hand and a Venti Americano in the other, and feels like a male athlete nearing fifty who’s about to sit down to write about his feelings. About the only thing that makes this better is Phichit’s set of glitter pens and two different notebooks, highlighter yellow post-it tabs sticking out from various pages. He’s encouraged that he’s not alone in this. Also on the brighter side, it could have been worse: Phichit could have bought him butterfly stickers. As it stands, there’s only one sheet of said stickers and Phichit appears to have got them strictly for himself.

It feels weird in the beginning, but it’s actually quite nice. It’s mid-morning on a week day, so the Barnes and Noble coffeeshop is not that busy: a couple of college students with laptops and three older ladies, each with a book. There’s a tiny table by the window they can take—the coffee shop is on the second floor, right above the store entrance, so there’s even a view: two trees and a small fountain.The view right opposite is quite nice, too. Celestino doesn’t think he’ll ever have enough of Phichit biting on his lip in concentration and chewing on his pen when he can’t think of his next sentence. 

“You aren’t writing,” Phichit scolds him with a small smile. 

No, he hasn’t been. He’s been staring.

“Isn’t there anything you’d like to try with me?”

And this image right here—Phichit with a pink glitter pen in his mouth, chin tilted lightly to the side, bangs falling across one eye—Celestino would like to keep forever. Behind Phichit, there’s the panoramic glass: the trees on the street, the restaurant across the road, tables still empty in expectation of the lunch crowd. 

It occurs to Celestino that he probably _could_ keep this image. That he maybe _should_. 

That Phichit, forever with his nose in his phone, might even understand it. 

So he does—pulls up his phone and takes a picture. 

Phichit beams at him.

He takes another one, and smiles back.

Then he puts his phone away and starts writing—because he’s got an idea: maybe they could do _this_.

________________________

He gets into it: it’s a story about hanging out on the couch in the low light, drinking whiskey; Phichit slowly losing successive pieces of clothing, Celestino taking pictures of how the warm yellow light from the standing lamp in the corner makes shade on his collar bones. About Celestino sucking in hickeys; seeing how those are going to look, shiny with saliva. 

Then he gets another idea: Phichit lying across the arm rest, feet on the floor and torso on the couch, Celestino rubbing copious and copious amounts of almond oil into his back and butt, the backs of his thighs. 

Celestino thinks about how Phichit’s skin will shine in the low light. 

Then he thinks about Phichit squirming and rolling around on the couch, posing so Celestino can take pictures. 

Then he thinks about having those pictures later, when Phichit’s not there—going through them one by one and remembering the quiet intimacy and slow-building anticipation of the night. 

With a tilt to the head and a sip of his Americano, Celestino realises he likes sitting with Phichit in a posh suburbia bookstore Starbucks, writing naughty things. There’s a thrill to it—how his dick feels warm and heavy and swells lightly. How—what if Phichit is getting hard, too? 

Celestino sips at his coffee again and thinks: none of them have any idea. The college students, the ladies with their books, the employees behind the counter. He’s sitting here, writing in his new journal about his twenty year old boyfriend, covered with massage oil, and they don’t even have a clue. Maybe there is something to this thing of Phichit’s, Celestino thinks, and makes it so their legs touch under the table. 

Phichit had said something about liking the shape of Celestino’s cock, Celestino remembers as he goes back to his writing. Maybe Celestino could take pictures of that, too: Phichit stretched and gaping and ready, then stretching slowly to accommodate the girth of Celestino going in. 

They could do that. They so totally could do that. 

He looks up and meets Phichit’s eyes, crinkled and glittering across the table. Seems like, for the past couple of minutes, _he_ ’s been the one stared at. 

A part of him still finds it hard to believe—that Phichit might like to look at him the same way he likes to look at Phichit. 

Maybe that’s one thing he can do—give Phichit things to look at. He reaches for the elastic that holds his hair together and shakes it loose.

Phichit smiles at him. “You ready?” he says and pushes his journal across the table. There are three holo butterflies on the page, and Phichit has written around them. There’s things underlined with glitter pen. Celestino doesn’t realise he’s blushing—yes, he’s a grown fucking man, and he’s _blushing_ —until Phichit says, “C’mon. Whatever you’ve got there can’t be any more embarrassing than this.”

Celestino reaches for the journal—and the camera on Phichit’s phone clicks. 

Celestino rolls his eyes.

Phichit grins at him like the cat who got the cream and pulls Celestino’s journal across the table. 

“Don’t… Can you not read it in front of me?” Celestino rubs his face. “Maybe at home, when I’m in the other room, or something?”

Phichit’s eyes crinkle, _again_ —by God, if Celestino had known that embarrassing him with his lewd writings in a Starbucks would end up being what it takes, he’d probably proposed this earlier. If he himself had known that doing this would make him feel like he has a plan, a concrete thing he can do to handle the terrifying newness of this, he’d have done it earlier, too. 

“Hmm,” Phichit says, quiet and playful, and sips on whatever Frappucino abomination he has ordered. “I can read yours later. But you have to read mine now.”

Celestino is a grown-ass adult. Celestino can do this. He nods, resolved.

“Just the one story,” Phichit cautions. “Don’t turn the page or look at other places.”

Phichit’s leg slides along his as he starts reading. 

________________________

Phichit’s writing is cute and bubbly, and—Celestino chuckles low in his throat. Because Phichit’s story is about being here, at Starbucks, and watching Celestino have dirty thoughts about Phichit. Wondering if Celestino’s hard. Wondering if, even if he’s not, he _could_ be if Phichit rubbed their legs like so and talked to him about locking themselves in the bathroom together. 

“Well. Why don’t you come join me, then, in a couple of minutes,” Celestino says as he closes Phichit’s journal and gets up. 

Phichit does come, all their things packed into his over-the-shoulder bag. Their drinks have been abandoned, but nevermind—there’s more where those come from. Celestino presses him to the white tiles with one hand and flips the lock on the toilet door with the other. Then he goes down on his knees and gets to work. 

________________________

Loose and sated, Phichit gets a new Frappucino on the way out. Frappucinos are, apparently, his off-day sugary self-indulgence drink. He sprawls loosely in the passenger seat of Celestino’s Toyota, then moves to sprawl loosely on Celestino’s newly cleaned couch with his half-finished drink and Celestino’s journal. Celestino watches him from the other end of the couch. He looks relaxed and happy, and Celestino’s glad—or as glad as he can be while trying not to worry about what Phichit would say about his fantasy.

Phichit, it turns out, says, “That’s lovely, I would love to do that,” and kisses him on the cheek.

Then they hang out—or rather, Celestino sits and contemplates the meaning of life, the universe, and everything with Phichit’s legs in his lap while Phichit’s on his phone, smiling at whatever he finds there and, at one point, chatting. There’s a capslock “OMG NO WAY” message from Yuuri—Phichit shows that to him and makes sure Celestino sees him type, “I know!!! It’s awesome!” before flinging himself back on the couch and ginning into his screen. He puts a hand on Phichit’s ankle and watches him brag. 

At one point, Phichit takes a picture of his legs and Celestino’s hand on them, and briefly flashes it across the couch before texting it to Yuuri. Kids these days, Celestino ponders. It would never have occurred to _him_ to do something like that. 

“Don’t worry, it all deletes itself,” Phichit says. And, Okay, that’s another thing Celestino didn’t think existed

________________________

When the grinning and giggling into the phone is finally over, Phichit tosses it aside and stretches, displaying a sliver of gorgeous, toned waist as his t-shirt rides up. By this point, Celestino knows better than to think it’s coincidental—especially when Phichit pushes down the elastic of his shorts and starts to fondle his cock for Celestino’s viewing pleasure. Two lessons to be learned, here: one, Phichit seems to sincerely enjoy displaying himself and knowing that his Ciao Ciao likes the view, and two—that kid can edge for a long, long time. By the time they’re off for dinner, his balls are full and heavy. Celestino knows this because Phichit asked him to feel them. 

________________________

Dinner is Italian, because Italian is close, and small talk about Yuuri and the rink which somehow transitions into talk on how nice different essential oils smell. Celestino keeps mental notes because he has no doubt that he’s supposed to go and procure the top three or four. Knowing what will come after makes it even better: there’s something about being sure that you’ll be given what you need—because you’ve communicated it and the other person has said, “yes, good, lovely,” and kissed you on the cheek—that makes Celestino feel… relaxed. Like there’s no need to keep waiting for another shoe to drop.

The plan requires darkness, so they move to the patio outside with a whiskey for Celestino and something very pink with an orange slice and an umbrella for Phichit. They don’t talk—Phichit just pushes his journal across the table quietly, flipped open to one of the tabs, and hides behind his cell phone. 

Celestino reads and wishes he could be holding Phichit. Because it’s about Bangkok and getting a black eye for jerking off where your highschool’s soccer team could catch you, and about Detroit—and telling yourself that you’re flipping a new page and you’ll stop now. Except that you don’t, and you get in trouble, _again_ , and feeling ashamed and hating yourself—and going to places that are a little bit worse each time, because somewhere deep down you hope you’ll stop if they scare you bad enough. 

Then, it’s about trying therapy, and focusing not on being hurt and scared, but on listing the bad consequences to your life, your triggers, and your coping strategies, and feeling like an even bigger freak in the process—because no trigger list ever makes it stop.

“Put your feet up on my lap,” Celestino says, and it’s for himself, not for Phichit, because it’s he who needs to hold him. And it _is_ a little better, having his hand on Phichit’s ankle. 

Phichit looks at him quietly from the other end of the table.

Celestino squeezes, and keeps reading. 

Now it’s about Phichit’s crush, and how exciting it was to do it, and risk it, and get caught—and not get shouted at, or hit. To want to do it again. To feel Ciao Ciao’s eyes—in this journal, he’s always Ciao Ciao—on his body and realize that he’s liked, and wanted.

To hope.

To decide to come clean, and have the chips come where they may.

To have them come on your side. 

But at the same time, to know that this is who you are. That this _thing_ is never going away, and if Ciao Ciao would rather not, Phichit would understand. 

Celestino knocks back the last of his whiskey and gets up.

“Come here,” he says, with his arms open, and holds this lovely, adorable kid, because both of them need it. 

Phichit presses his head into Celestino’s shoulder and clutches for dear life. 

“Thanks for telling me,” Celestino murmurs. “And for suggesting the writing thing. I liked that. Doing it together.” Then, when they’re back on the couch, the light of the standing lamp in the corner casting Phichit’s face in shadows: “I think I freak out less when I write.”

“I think I freak out less when I write, too,” Phichit says, and smiles.

 

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [As Long As You Come Home at the End of the Day](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11581158) by [chromyrose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chromyrose/pseuds/chromyrose)




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